Coming Around
by gopadfoot
Summary: What if Mycroft is less forgiving of his family? What if he is fed up with the way he was treated, and acts on it? A sort of AU on my story What Goes Around, but you don't have to read that first.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I had this weird idea while I was writing my story, "What Goes Around," and I decided to make this into an AU of that one. If you haven't read it, why not? Just kidding;) This is based on a dream Sherlock had, but I turned it into reality.

The premise is: What if Mycroft isn't quite as forgiving of his family's treatment of him? What if he decides to act in a very different manner than he always has?

Please let me know what you think of this. I will even accept criticism graciously-as long as it is done in the same manner! XD

* * *

The day after the Fateful One, which was how Sherlock privately termed the one they had spent at Sherrinford, the detective placed a call to his brother, privately termed the Unbearable One. (He somehow seemed slightly less unbearable than before, Sherlock mused, recalling their adventures. On the other hand, he had a lot to answer for.)

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Mycroft Holmes sounded exhausted.

"Peachy keen, brother mine," Sherlock drawled. "We have some business that needs to be discussed."

"Of course." Sherlock couldn't deny that his brother's conciliatory response made him smugly satisfied. It was nice to be calling the shots for a change.

"We need to inform them, Mycroft," Sherlock said. It came out a tad harsher than he had intended.

"I will. Don't worry. I merely need another couple of days to finish up some urgent work."

"I can't believe you, Mycroft! Our parents are grieving a daughter they believe dead, and all you can think of is your work?!"

"It's not exactly like that. There are major security concerns regarding Sherrinford, and the staff that has been compromised. My involvement is needed."

"Fine, take your time," Sherlock snapped, annoyed. Here he was, all ready to be forgiving and supportive to his brother, and he was getting brushed off.

"How is Dr. Watson?" The British Government inquired solicitously.

The inquiry felt like an invasion of privacy to the younger brother, who was feeling extremely solicitous of his friend, after the latter had nearly drowned in a well. "As well as can be, considering he was chained to the bottom of a well for hours, and had nearly drowned by the time he was rescued," he spat. The implied accusation, "No thanks to you," was heard as clearly as if it had been said.

"I'm sorry that he had to go through that," Mycroft said, sounding sincere. "I'm sorry about everything that went wrong yesterday. It was all my fault."

Sherlock softened a bit at hearing the genuine regret in his brother's voice. "Yeah, well, you messed up, but you didn't mean for all of it to happen. Let's move on. Will you ask Mummy and Dad to meet us personally?"

"I'll ask them to meet us in my office. I'll send you the details. Please do give my apologies to Dr. Watson."

"Alright. And Mycroft, you're not off the hook. You lied to me _again_ yesterday regarding Redbeard. If you want to ever regain my trust, you will have to work for it. Hard." With that parting shot, he ended the call.


	2. Chapter 2

Holding his breath, the consulting detective silently dismantled the security cameras and broke into the room. The balaclava and black clothes were so clichéd as to make him wince, but effective nevertheless.

This was all Mycroft's fault, once again. His premonition had proved itself to be right, when the meeting turned into a blowup. Mummy had flung sharp words and accusations, and Mycroft had tried to defend himself, to no use. Sherlock had at one point felt sympathy for his brother, sitting there looking so beaten. He spoke up in his defense, saying that he had tried his best. That statement only brough the more harsh words from Mummy.

In the end, Mycroft was summarily dismissed as Mummy turned to Sherlock for his advice. Her words still brought a warm glow in his heart whenever he thought about it. His parents both seemed to agree that he was the grownup, the mature one, and he would make sure not to let them down. A small part of him felt bad for his older brother, but on the other hand, he felt that Mycroft had it coming to him. He had messed up badly, and was now paging the consequences.

Sherlock focused on comforting his parents and thinking about ways to reach Eurus. It had taken him a while to realize that his big brother was giving the whole family the silent treatment. His texts and phone calls were always answered by his brother's PA, who relayed messages back and forth between them.

221b had been rebuilt, and Sherlock was back to solving cases with John. He also made twice weekly visits to Sherrinford, coordinated by Anthea. Mycroft refused to have contact with him directly.

Sherlock was irritated with his brother, and decided to let him play his game. He stopped trying to contact him. Sometimes, he would whip out his phone and begin typing a text, asking for information or assistance in some cases or other, when he would catch himself and angrily delete it.

When Mrs. Hudson once tried calling Mycroft when her car was towed, Anthea had picked up and politely informed her that speeding while holding a mobile was against the law, and Mr. Holmes was involved with other matters. The landlady fumed at her attitude, and asked Sherlock to intervene. Sherlock solved the matter through Lestrade, but was fuming too.

He predictably marched into the anteroom of Mycroft's office, and flatly demanded to be let in. Anthea looked at him coolly, and informed him in bored tones that her boss was unavailable to meet with him.

Before Sherlock could attempt to break in, Anthea spoke up while still typing away. "We both know why you're here, Mr. Holmes. You come here only to take, and never to give." She busied herself with her tasks without saying another word.

The detective stayed rooted to his place, looking alternatively at the PA and his brother's door. He then turned around to leave with quiet steps, his shoulders unnaturally slumped.

During his continued visits to his sister, Sherlock began to feel a burning need to do more. He wanted to look at her previous psychiatric records, which now had a D notice slapped on them. He felt that if he could access them, he would gain much needed insight, and perhaps give back to his parents a daughter who would actually talk to them.

After fruitless appeals to Mycroft, through Anthea of course, and even Lady Smallwood, which were met with frosty refusals, Sherlock took matters into his own hands, and broke into Sherrinford, where the records were kept, and hacked into the computer system for good measure. He had found what he came for, with none the wiser. Or so he thought.

It was only when he found himself trussed up like a chicken later that night, in his own home to boot, that he realized how erroneous his assumptions were. He didn't know who the five big guys were working for, but they were clearly well-trained and dangerous, and wanted all the information he had on Sherrinford.

Their attempts at intimidation was laughable, until they began showing him the video clips. They had their eyes on _everyone_! John playing with Rosie in Stella's kitchen, Molly curled up on her couch with Toby, even Lestrade drinking at his kitchen table in a dressing gown. The cameras were close enough to get all the details, and a frisson of fear slithered up Sherlock's back.

They wanted to know more than he was ever prepared to tell them. Giving them the information would let loose the most dangerous of criminals, and then nobody would be safe. Nobody. Eurus might even take the opportunity and come after them again. No matter how much he cared for her, her twisted psyche made her a threat.

"No," was all he said, over and over again. "No, no, no." The sudden pounding of feet was heard upon the stairs, and he dared to hope. Had rescue arrived?

He had never been more glad for the sight of his pompous git of a brother. A sliver of warmth stole into his heart. Big Brother was still following him around, still watching him. He watched Mycroft walking over calmly to one thug, swinging his umbrella. "Mission complete," he said, and the guy nodded, "Yes, sir," and left with his men.

"Mycroft?!" Sherlock said, his voice small. "What... what was that?"

His question was answered by none other than Lady Smallwood, who had arrived behind Mycroft. "We needed to know whether our security had been compromised by you. We had to find out whether you would be willing to talk." She looked at glared at him icily.

"You have an invitation, brother mine, at my office tomorrow," Mycroft said in his coldest voice, which made Antarctica compare to the Sahara at midday. "Eleven sharp. Be prompt. You don't want to make us come and get you."

Mycroft and Lady Smallwood turned around and left without another word. Sherlock stayed behind, feeling furious, betrayed, and heartbroken.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** My most heartfelt thanks for your amazing support. I hope you continue enjoying!

* * *

Sherlock arrived at Whitehall right on time, and was confused and worried when two security guards intercepted him and asked him to accompany them. His slight feelings of unease grew into outright apprehension when he realized where they were leading him. It was the holding room, ironically where Mycroft had once interrogated Lady Smallwood.

He found the stern Lady seated next to Mycroft, with a chair prepared for him on the other side. Anthea was standing, leaning against the wall and adjusting her earphones. The PA gestured for him to sit down.

"Why exactly are we here?" Sherlock questinned, with a touch of diffidence.

It was Anthea who answered. "This is standard procedure for questioning suspected offenders, which is what you are right now, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock stared at his brother incredulously. "Mycroft!" he hissed in indignation. His brother didn't even glance his way.

"You need to sit down before this session can begin," Anthea continued in the same indifferent tone.

Something about her response rang a bell, but Sherlock was in too much distress to delve into it. He reluctantly sat down and watched Lady Smallwood prepare a pen, a notepad, and a recorder.

"Would you like some gingernuts?" Anthea inquired, and Sherlock was confused by her change in attitude.

"Please," he replied politely.

"What a pity we're out," she said, and flounced out of the room.

Sherlock had an Eureka moment right then. The housebreaking, the interrogation, the frosty attitude was all part of one goal; payback. And what better way to accomplish that than Sherlock's own methods?

"Mr. Holmes, we need you to state your name for the records, and then you may tell us all about your adventures at Sherrinford. You will leave nothing out," Lady Smallwood said in her most official tones. It was only now that Sherlock realized how differently she usually spoke to him. There was always an undercurrent of compassion, and sometimes amusement, that softened her voice somewhat. She had been well briefed, and was angry on Mycroft's behalf.

Despite his realization, the younger man still felt helpless and humiliated. "I suppose that asking you to consider this a family matter would be the next part I play," Sherlock said sarcastically.

His brother was now looking directly at him, smiling without humour. "Ah, family," he drawled condescendingly. "Some would say family is those whom we chose to consider as such, isn't that right?" He smiled, and then added in a very soft, intense voice, " _Brother mine?_ "

A wave of anger washed over the younger man. "Well, the family I _chose_ doesn't have me kidnapped and threatened. Is this little lesson over? Because I would like to find myself in better company as soon as possible."

"Not quite, Sherlock. You have not only broken the law, but gravely endangered the security of an institution which we have spent a lot of resources to protect.

"You very well know this isn't the first time you have put security at risk, and in highly sensitive matters too. You have gotten away with a lot, which perhaps has encourage you to continue. This stops _now._ "

"Great. May I make a phone call before I'm led away to my prison cell?" Sherlock sniped sardonically.

"Don't be ridiculous. We all know there's no point to that. You will, for the next three months, be working with our top experts in security and technology, and give them your assistance. You will show them all your ltitle tricks, and help them improve our defenses against attacks.

"It does not matter how _dull_ or _boring_ you might find this. If you give us less than your full cooperation, we will have to consider alternative consequences."

Sherlock stood up in a huff, and turned to leave without a word. He heard Mycroft calling after him, "Regards to the family, brother mine."

* * *

Mycroft rubbed at his eyes. He turned to the Lady seated besides him. "I'm afraid I was too harsh." He sounded tired, as if the fight had leaked out of him.

"He does need to learn his lesson, Mycroft. We agreed on that," the Lady's voice was firm.

"Indeed. But why does it have to be me, again?" He chuckled humourlessly. "I would have thought that I would enjoy a bit of payback, after everything. It was actually torture. He was scared, and hurt. My little brother. I can't do this anymore." He sighed in anguish.

"Mycroft, I understand. Perhaps we shouldn't have pushed you to do this." She looked up as Anthea came in.

For once, Anthea was looking her boss straight into the eye. "We all know, Sir," she said evenly, "that your brother hasn't felt even a pang of regret for playing the same game on you. After everything you ever did for him, he's still blaming and punishing you for everything that ever went wrong in his life. It's up to you whether you chose to do anything about that.

"But when it comes to the safety of our citizens, he needs to be taught to stop and think. He looks at you as a get-out-of-jail-free card, literally. If he indeed wants to be considered a grownup, he should learn to pay his dues. And by the way, he got off pretty lightly now."

The British Government regarded the two women with a tiny smile. "You two are very, very scary, you know. I hope never to get on your bad side." They looked back at him grimly, their stances and expressions screaming of determination and protective essential.

Mycroft thought back to the day Lady Smallwood found him after his parents' visit. He had been so shaken and lost, that he responded to her prodding by outlining the whole situation in flat, unemotional tones. He had started with the home invasion, continued with Sherrinford, and ended with the meeting.

Never had he seen Lady Smallwood look so angry. The sight of her was fearsome. She called in Anthea, and had Mycroft relate all the details again. Then she asked Mycroft, " What happens now?"

"Well, I suppose Sherlock will come up with a grand plan to get Eurus to communicate. Then he will give our parents their daughter back, or something. I guess I'll be called on to make the visiting arrangements or something. If my parents are feeling generous, I might even be invited to see Sherlock work his magic, and we'll all be a big happy family once again." This time, he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Your parents, they didn't let you explain at all? They didn't even listen to your side?" Alicia Smallwood asked.

"I can't blame them. They were very upset."

"Well, I hope they call you when they calm down, and you can all make amends."

"I doubt it. You know what my Dad said about Eurus, right after he heard about everything she'd done. He said no matter who she is or what she has done, she's still his daughter. I didn't merit the same defense, for some reason."

"I'll tell you what. We'll wait and see. If they give you a chance, we'll let things be. However, if they continue treating you with that same attitude, we'll change track. If Sherlock deserves chances, and even Eurus does, than you, who has done more for every single member of the family than anyone else ever has, and have always put their needs above anything else, definitely deserve more. You will stand up for yourself, and we will be behind you."

"We?" Mycroft questioned, dazed.

"Yes, we," Alicia said stoutly, and Anthea smiled and nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Somethings up with , and I can't view yesterday's reviews. Thank you to whoever reviewed, and I hope to read it soon. In the meantime, if you want to let me know something right now, you can always PM me:) Enjoy!

* * *

Mycroft had given them a chance. He had waited. His parents had then made contact- through Sherlock. Sherlock had sent Mycroft a text, which stated, "Need twice weekly access to Sherrinford- SH."

Mycroft had texted back-though he preferred talking, it was the safer method under the circumstances- "Alright. Is there anything else you need?-MH"

The reply he received was one that made his decision final. "That's about all you can be trusted with right now. Don't mess it up.-SH"

He tried to explain to his "team", as he privately thought of them now. "I never expected a bouquet of flowers for doing my duty to my family. Not even a simple thank you, or any acknowledgement. My parents simply expect it. But Sherlock, he despises me for it.

"I have accepted that. Every single time I rescue him from his own foolishness, he resents me all the more. I understand that he has issues with my interference and my methods, and he especially hates being in someone's debt.

"What makes this different is that they don't trust me anymore. Not only that, they have no more use of me. Except for access to Sherrinford, perhaps. But Sherlock, he has found his place, he has his friends, and has even reconnected with my parents. My parents now trust and rely on Sherlock. If my interference isn't necessary, and my company unwanted, I won't force it upon them."

"What exactly do you mean by that, Mycroft?" Lady Smallwood asked, her usually stern voice softened.

"I mean a clean break. Further assistance can be arranged, perhaps through Anthea," he turned to her, a question in his eyes, and she nodded. "Thank you. No more direct contact. If they need my resources, I can give it to them, but I don't want to be-" Mycroft cut himself off, looking at loss for words. The two woman looked at him sympathetically.

"Used, Sir," Anthea supplied quietly. "I believe you don't want to be used any longer."

The British Government began to feel uncomfortable with the conversation. He had uncharacteristically spilled his guts, to his workmates no less. He supposed that there was something about womenfolk and their skillful manipulations that led even the strongest of men to break. Dangerous, all of them.

He tried to bring the conversation to a quick end. "Right, we'll have Anthea respond to texts and phone calls, and Alicia, you know what to say when Sherlock contacts you."

He paused for a moment, lost in thought. "You know, I've always claimed that caring is not an advantage. I think I've been proven right."

He noticed both ladies stiffen at the same time, and a shiver passed down his spine. Alicia brought her face closer to his and stared directly into his eyes. "Are you saying, Mr. Holmes, that you do not require our help? Because why would we give it to you, if we didn't _care_?"

As Mycroft began stammering apologies, the Lady got up to leave. "Think about what I said, Mycroft." In a gentler voice she added, "Caring can hurt. I know. But stopping to care will hurt you much more."

Dangerous, indeed.

* * *

After Sherlock's "interrogation", there wasn't any attempt by the Holmes family to contact Mycroft, for a good month. Then, to Mycroft's great surprise, Mummy called him.

He deliberated on whether to pick up, vaguely aware of his stomach knotting and his fingers shaking from anxiety. A sudden spark of hope flared up in his proverbial frozen heart. Perhaps Mummy was seeking to make amends. Perhaps she wanted to listen to his side, and while she would still not approve, perhaps she would understand.

He always had a hard time expressing his feelings, but for Mummy's sake, he would try. The fear had felt for his family, the warnings from Uncle Rudy, the helplessnes and confusion when he had to make the decision to lie to his parents, knowing that it was wrong but feeling the alternative was worse.

The Holmes parents at that point had been at the point of breaking, dealing with the knowledge of what Eurus was, and Sherlock's mental breakdown. When Rudy told them about Eurus's death, Mycroft had picked up on the spark of relief in their eyes, hidden amongst the sorrow. He resolved then and there that no one would ever find out the truth.

The mobile in his ls stopped ringing before he had the courage to press "talk." Anthea was next to him in seconds. "Talk to her. Be honest. Say what you've always wanted to say."

"Pep talks aren't part of your job description, and won't get you a raise," Mycroft informed her calmly.

She ignored him and went on typing.

When the phone rang again, Mycroft picked up immediately. "Hello, Mummy."

"Mycroft, dear, we'll be meeting in Sherrinford on Monday, at ten o'clock. Clear your schedule. I expect you to be there on time."

Mummy's tone was matter-of-fact, if a bit hard. Mycroft was surprised. He had expected something more emotional. Anger, hurt, tears, perhaps some more recriminations, or hopefully some tearful apologies. He had planned to listen to all that she had to say, and then perhaps apologize again, and present his side.

Mummy pretending that nothing had ever happened confused him, and even hurt him a bit. He would have thought the absence of his communication would at least be commented upon. He felt that there were mountains of hurt and misunderstanding between himself and Mummy, and was unable to ignore it. He was sick of pretending, of hiding all the time.

"Mummy," he whispered through the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry about everything that happened. I wanted to explain-"

"Now's not the time, Mycroft," she interrupted him crisply. "Needless to say, I'm still very angry at you. I don't want to hear your excuses now. However, I feel this is a time for the family to be together, so I expect you to come."

Mycroft was silent for a long moment, while he forced down the annoying lump in his throat. Some of his newfound bitterness arose in his chest, as he gave voice to his burning question.

"Mummy," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "What role do I have in this? You and Dad will go see Eurus. Sherlock will try to reach her, or something. What exactly will I be doing there?"

In a deep, deep, place in his heart, he hope Mummy would tell him, "Because I need you there. Because you are my son and I love you, and our family is incomplete without you." His conscious mind would never give voice to such ridiculous sentiment. Nevertheless, he hope to be told that he was needed in some way.

"You know, Sherlock has been really amazing. He said he's made a lot of progress, but he didn't say how. He wants to surprise us. I thought it would be good for you to see that. You shouldn't have given up on your sister that fast."

Mycroft came the closest to crying that he had in years, while scolding himself for still caring about what his mother had said. This foolish sentimental attachment would do him in one day, he was sure. "Mummy," he choked out. "I'm sorry that I cannot play the role you want me to play. I'm sorry that I can't be what you want me to be."

He gently put the phone on the table and placed his head in his hands. He still didn't cry.

* * *

The lovely sounds played by two violins entranced the audience. Mildred Holmes gazed at her two youngest children through a veil of tears. She saw them smiling at each other and her heart expanded. At her right, her husband was having a similar reaction to hers.

She was finally ready to grant forgiveness. On instinct, she reached out her left hand to both give and gain support, reassurance, and a fresh start.

Her left hand met empty air.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** I finally got to see the reviews, and love your passionate responses! This chapter might be a bit controversial, but in my opinion, it's a version that not only agrees with the show canon, but explains a lot. Enjoy, and keep your comments coming!

* * *

There was a conference of sorts taking place in the Holmes residence. William and Mildred Holmes had urged Sherlock to invite his friend, that nice doctor, to participate. "We're a bit at a loss, honestly," William addressed them first. "We thought we can finally have our family back together again, after everything. We didn't expect that it would be Mycroft who would cause us issues with that."

"Did you try contacting him?" Sherlock asked, a bit of concern leaking into his question.

"I called his mobile and left a message when he didn't pick up," Mildred answered this time. "I told hime that I'm ready to forgive him, and put everything behind us. He answered by text." She bit her lips worriedly. "Can we see it?" Sherlock asked quietly, understanding that his mother found it difficult to relay the message.

Her phone was passed to the younger duo, who peered curiously at the screen. The message read: "I'm not ready yet. I'm sorry. - MH"

"What does that even _mean_ ," Mildred asked, bewildered.

"Sounds a bit like a teenage tantrum," John remarked flippant. "Like Harry used to throw. 'I'm never going to forgive you all, you're all so mean,' that sort of thing."

Sherlock was silent, a pensive look on his face.

"I'm sure if you give him time, he'll come around by himself. After all, he knows you really love him, right?" John tried to reassure them.

"You know, I think you're right," Mrs. Holmes conceded. "Mycroft was always a bit childish with his grudges. I remember how he always tried to get Sherlock here," she threw her younger son a fond smile, "into hot water. Honestly, I think he was always a little jealous of him. Sherlock was always such a free spirit, so easygoing, while Mycroft was always too uptight." She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

Sherlock snorted, while John looked a bit startled. The Holmes matriarch continued reminiscing. "My oldest would always tell me, even when this one was a little tyke," she pointed at the detective, "that my younger son has issues, that I should get him checked out. Well, he recovered nicely from the trauma he experienced, and he was as sweet and loveable as ever before. Mycroft just couldn't let it go."

Dr. Watson had an interesting expression on his face, Mildred thought. He looked as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, and was that the beginning of outrage? Yes, it was good that she could confide in the doctor, he really understood her sons.

"Did you take his advice?" John asked carefully.

Mildred waved a hand carelessly. " Oh, he did meet someone, and that incompetent fool said a lot of nonsense, something about social issues, emotional maladjustment, and who knows what else. But a mother knows best. Here was this sweet child, so charming, so eager to please. So what if he loved experimenting instead of playing with friends. I mean, he's a genius! And so creative. You should have seen what experiments he came up with," she smiled indulgently.

Sherlock groaned. "Mummy, please. Stop right there."

Mrs. Holmes chuckled. "And so modest, too!"

She turned to John, and lowered her voice a bit, speaking as if imparting confidential information. "Things got worse when the boys were older. Mycroft would constantly tattle on him, trying to make himself look better by comparison. He would exaggerate things, even outright fabricate issues. Do you know, he even tried to convince us that Sherlock was a _drug addict,_ " she hissed the last two words incredulously.

John had his lips compressed in a thin line. Mildred was glad that he was so worked up on Sherlock's behalf. He was a truly loyal friend. "And what did you do about those accusations?" the doctor asked in a strained voice. Sherlock was fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat, while staring at the ceiling. His mother supposed he had a hard time dealing with the memories of his brother's betrayal.

"We would come to check up on Sherlock, William and I. Then we would hear his side of the story. He was never an addict, my Sherlock. He's an expert chemist, you know, and he could handle taking a little something to help his concentration. Sometimes there was a mistake in the dosage, it could happen to anyone. And sometimes he needed it to solve a case, and that was pretty understandable. He always seemed fine by the time we came."

"So, you approved of his drug taking?" Dr. Watson asked, his voice sounding a little odd.

"Oh, not like that. It's just that we trusted that he knew what he was doing. Mycroft never trusted him, he held on to his petty grudges. Sherlock was always so mature, when he would tell us about Mycroft smoking or gaining weight, it was so obvious that he cared for his brother. He has such a good heart," she sighed. "He was always the grownup."

"I see," the doctor said thinly.

"I'm glad that he has such an amazing career, and is famous and liked around the world. Poor Mycroft is still stuck in his government job, pushing paper all day long. No wonder he envies his little brother."

"I think I'd like to take a walk around the grounds, clear my head a little, if you don't mind," John said, his voice tight.

"Sure, go ahead. We'll have tea when you come back."

"Sherlock?" the doctor motioned.

"I'm coming," Sherlock mumbled.

* * *

"Can you tell me what the _hell_ is going on around here? Because I feel that I fell down the rabbit hole!" John yelled at Sherlock when they were safely outside.

"The what?" his friend questioned in confusion.

"Never mind that. Just tell me, for the love of your Belfast coat, what is your mother talking about? You, a grownup?! Mature?! Not an addict?! Mycroft is _jealous_?!" The doctor was sputtering.

Sherlock strolled on silently, his hands in his pocket. John let him be. After a full five minutes, the detective's voice was heard, unusually hesitant and pensive. "John, I'm still figuring things out myself. I suppose I was always Mummy's favorite, and even Dad indulged me more than he did Mycroft. I just always accepted it as fact.

"With the information I have now, I realize this started mostly after the Redbeard incident." John marveled at how only a Holmes could refer to such a total disaster as an 'incident.'

"I had major PTSD and psychological issues afterwards, as you are aware. My parents must have been terrified that, I, too, would have to be institutionalized. When I came out of my fugue and started basically functioning again, it was enough to assuage their fears. They also became very overprotective of me, which allowed me to get away with a lot." He smiled ironically.

"What about all your other issues? You know, whatever made you declare yourself a high functioning sociopath?" the doctor pressed.

"They weren't ready to deal with another child with issues."

"So they told themselves a better story," the doctor mused.

"Yes, that seems to be something the Holmes family is good at," the younger man answered, his voice heavy.

"Look, this isn't right. You know I'm not a huge fan of Mycroft-" Sherlock predictably snorted at the doctor's understatement, "but even I can see that something isn't right. If this is what Mycroft has gotten all his life, I don't blame him. I don't blame him at all."

"Why the sudden defense of my dear brother, who you were so ready to condemn not an hour ago?" Sherock asked, his voice suddenly defensive.

John smiled sadly, suddenly looking much older than his age. "Let me share a little story with you. It's about Harry and me."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Another chapter for your perusall and enjoyment. You all inspire me with your enthusiasm!

* * *

"We're pretty close in age, Harry and I, with her being only a year older than me. But we're very different. I always worked hard and did well in school. Harry, well, things were more difficult for her. My parents never understood why she did so poorly. It was only as an adult that she was diagnosed with-"

"ADHD," Sherlock interrupted. "Obvious."

"You didn't get _that_ from her phone," John replied dryly.

"I suspected it from the one time we met," Sherlock shrugged. "You just confirmed it for me."

"Thank you, Mr. Genius. Now shut up and let me continue. Anyway, she was obviously intelligent, with the way she picked up and remembered various pieces of information. Unfortunately, her intelligence worked against her. My parents, and her school decided that she was simply lazy. At that time, her condition was under-diagnosed, especially in girls.

"She would also act out, at home and in school, suffering from an excess of energy that she had nowhere to release. Dad was a military man, and Mummy was pretty old school, and they believed in good old-fashioned discipline.

"At a pretty young age, were both placed into our own categories, and stuck with a label. I was the Good Boy, and she was the Impossible One. We both accepted it as a fact of life. I would get constant rewards and praise, while she consistently got criticism and punishment. We both worked hard to live up to expectations," John smiled wryly.

"When Harry was eighteen, she left home and tried to turn herself around. She is very talented, and became a fashion consultant, gathering an impressive clientele. She found Clara, and I hoped she was finally happy.

"But it seems that the moment she tasted success, she fell back into her own habits. She drank away her money, her career, and her partner. You want to know what she tells me, every single time she's drunk?" John raised his voice slightly.

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow.

"She says, 'I can't do this, Johnny. You are the good one, the successful one. I'm damaged. I can't really succeed. It's all just an illusion.' She doesn't believe in herself, so her successes seem fake. She's always running, running from her memories, from her success, from herself."

"And you're comparing Mycroft to Harry?" Sherlock questioned incredulously.

"Not the point. I just see what it's done to her, to be constantly compared to me and coming up short. Every time I see her, my beautiful, talented, intelligent sister, drinking her life away because she believes she is broken, I wonder why I never stood up for her. Why I never told my parents that she doesn't deserve the label they gave her, that she is a wonderful human being despite not being perfect. And I wonder what would have happened if she were an only child, and wasn't constantly being compared to her brother who could do no wrong."

Sherlock Holmes deduced, by the wetness in John's eyes, that this particular topic was a Bit Not Good. John blamed himself, of course, for not saving his sister.

"You aren't at fault for your parents' actions," he told him quietly.

"I suppose not. But I suppose your mother's words just struck me the wrong way. I've personally gotten to see how harmful it is for a child to be labeled as second class. Which, if you'll pardon me for saying it, is exactly what your parents are doing."

"John," the detective's voice was hesitant and confused. "I understand your point, but we're talking about Mycroft here, not Harry. Mycroft is... Mycroft. He isn't drinking his life away, or anything similar to that. He's the fat git who runs this country and enjoys manipulating people as a pastime. Mycroft isn't- is not... damaged." Sherock spat the last word with ridicule.

"Hmm, I don't know. Isn't he?" the doctor mused. "We both know how far he goes to protect himself from feeling any human emotions. Like a certain high-functioning sociopath used to do, only he hides it better."

"And if he does, is it necessarily his family that is at fault?" Sherlock answered, a touch defensively.

"That question is above my pay grade, and I wouldn't answer it even if it weren't. I only know what I see with my eyes, and I see him staying away from all of you. Answer me this; do you really want him back?"

"Mummy's pretty upset, and Dad-"

"No, I'm asking you. Do you personally want to resume your relationship, if what you had could even be called that?"

Sherlock was silent, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he said, "I suppose."

"Why?"

"Why? I honestly have no idea. What's with the interrogation today?" he said grumpily.

"I just think that if you are going to put any effort into this, you should know why you're doing this. Don't bother telling me. Just think about it."

The men hurried back to the cottage, where the older couple was waiting.

William Holmes addressed John and while sipping his piping hot tea, sweetened with honey. "Do you think I should perhaps tell Mycroft that I will accept him as my son, no matter what he has done? Do you think that's what he's waiting to hear?"

Sherlock was the one who answered him. "Dad, I hardly think he would like to be compared to Eurus right now."

William's face fell, but he nodded in agreement. "What do you think we should do?" he addressed John again. The doctor wondered, not for the first time, if there was something about his appearance that screamed "family doctor" and made young and old turn to him for advice.

"I can't tell you what to do, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. However, I believe you will soon figure it out yourselves. Please pardon my impertinencell and just tell me one thing; how badly do you want to resume contact with your son?"

"What do you mean by that!" Mildred exclaimed, deeply offended. "He's my son!"

"Are you willing to do whatever it takes?" John asked quietly and firmly. "Even if it might be very painful? Even if it might take a lot of time and effort?"

Mildred looked bewildered, while her husband looked thoughtful. "Whatever it takes," the latter said firmly. "Right, my dear?"

His wife sniffed tearfully, then nodded. The doctor turned to his friend and ordered, "Right, Sherlock, start talking."

"What?!" Sherlock choked.

"You heard me. You will tell the truth, pure and simple or not, from beginning to end. Everything."

"No," was the hissed reply.

"Or I'll do the talking, as much as I know, anyway."

His younger friend looked frightened. "I don't know if this is right."

The former army doctor spoke to his friend as if he were a small and frightened child. "Sherlock, I know this isn't easy. But I think this is the only way to heal this rift. If you want, I will stay here the whole time, if your parents agree. Do you want to do this?"

Sherlock gazed out the window, and saw an image of himself and Mycroft strolling the grounds, sneaking a smoke away from Mummy's watchful eyes. That scenario had occurred just about every time they visited, which wasn't much. A small smile played about his lips.

"For our family," he said. _For Mycroft,_ he added in his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

Destruction was never easy to watch, John mused internally, even when done for a good purpose. Like surgery, when you needed to remove infected tissue from the healthy ones, you had to cut deep and it was always painful.

Sherlock was cutting deep. Even if he only touched upon the highlights, and his descriptions were bare-bones, the effect of the accumulated information was overwhelming. The weeks and even months of living from high to high, the overdoses and the daily danger he faced, and the wrenching pain of never being at peace.

Mycroft's role, the rescues and the hospitals, the rehabs and the up-and-down cycles. Mycroft noting his attraction to crime scenes, and discreetly arranging for unofficial endorsement of the world's only consulting detective. There was a reason he was the only one.

Urged on by John, Sherlock gave very brief overviews about some of the trouble the duo had faced over the years, and how they made use of the British Government's assistance. The detective explained how he and his brother had hatched a plan to bring down Moriarty. The discreet assistance through his years spent 'dead', and the way he had personally come to rescue him.

He mentioned 'a bit of trouble with the law, it could have meant some time in exile,' and how Mycroft 'took care' of it. He carefully mentioned getting 'some assistance' in protecting Mary from those threatening her, and finding the threat. He looked at John with a gaze so filled with sorrow and remorse, that John felt compelled to squeeze his hand and whisper, "It's alright."

The elder couple didn't interrupt him once. William listened with his head lowered almost until his chest, and shook his head in dismay from time to time. Mildred clutched her handkerchief tightly, letting out some choked sobs at various points. Both of them seemed to be in slight shock, and too overwhelmed to speak.

Sherlock paused his narrative, and looked at John pleadingly. They were up to the most difficult part of all: Sherrinford. The doctor sighed, and cocked his head, considering. "I don't think there's another way," he finally said. "What happened that day, that's exactly why we're here now. This is the final piece of the puzzle."

The younger man nodded in resignation. He glossed over the 'little prank' that they played, and talked about Mycroft coming over. The doctor seemed to be thinking hard. "Tell them about the chair," he said suddenly.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, grimacing.

"You know."

"It was your idea," the detective accused.

"Yes, and we both did our parts. This is _your_ confessional now. We can take care of mine at another time," he quirked his lips.

"It was a joke," Sherlock insisted.

"Indeed. For us. I was just thinking..." He hesitated. For some reason, he had suddenly pictured Harry in the chair, her breath smelling of alcohol, slurring her words while sobbing her heart out. "You don't really care about me, Johnny. I'm just a pain in the neck to you. _He_ is your family. You love only him, not me!"

The analogy was ludicrous. John had always seen Mycroft as the pompous, overbearing older brother who was also the British Government, and who desperately needed to have his head deflated a bit. Spending time with his family, and getting to see him as a child who had been hurt, time and again, was forcing him to feel compassion for the man whose heart was made of ice.

"What if," John began thoughtfully, "he didn't see it that way?"

Sherlock looked bewildered, then thoughtful. Then he began a journey from which there was no turning back. He told his parents about teachingredients his brother a lesson, which was perhaps taught too well. Perhaps it reinforced his belief that he had no special significance in his brother's life, beyond calls for help. Perhaps this incident influenced the events that came afterwards.

He told his parents the story of their three children, who had met together one day on an island amidst stormy seas. How one of them was so broken, that she searched for long without knowing its meaning.

She led her brothers and the doctor through harrowing experiences, testing and deducing them with her mind, unable to use her heart. And then, one brother tried to make the other one hate him, enough so that he would find it easy to do what he had to.

The younger brother had always known, despite everything, who the older one really was. He trusted him enough to point a gun at his heart, while his target reassured him that he was doing the right thing.

At this point in the narrative, the mother of the two had heard enough. " How could you!" she cried out, anguished. "Idiot boys! Both of you! What were you thinking, Sherlock! Taking a... your own brother! My Mycroft! I don't care if you had to save the world from annihilation by nuclear attack, you should never for a moment have considered doing such a thing!"

"He asked me to," her son answered forlornly.

"And Mycroft! What was he thinking! Manipulating his little brother like that! As if you would ever do such a thing." She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "You know better than that, don't you, Sherlock?"

"Of course, Mummy," Sherlock soothed. He continued his tale, telling about the gun he pointed under his chin, which brought panicked exclamations from both parents this time. "What is it with my boys," she asked John tearfully, "playing with their lives, as if it didn't matter?"

"They'll be fine," the doctor reassured. "They are strong, both of them. And look at how much they care for each other, and look out for each other."

The detective was twisting in his chair uncomfortably. His mother's words had stung him, but John's words stung even more. Was it true? Did he ever look after his brother, like the older one did for him? He closed his eyes and receded deep into his Mind Palace.

He was unsurprised to find him waiting, right behind the metaphorical door. "Hello, brother mine," the man greeted, in his typical unflappable tone.

Sherlock looked him over, his clothes in perfect condition, his umbrella swinging casually at his side. "Am I still?" he asked quietly.

"Well, what do you think? How do you deduce the situation?" Mycroft smiled in his typical condescending way.

"I'm a bit lost. Why don't you tell me? You always guide me through my deductions."

"Ah, yes, the _deductions_ ," Mycroft drawled scornful lyrics. "Remember those games we used to play?"

"It wasn't just games," Sherlock exclaimed indignantly. "It's my Work now."

"Of course," the older one waved a hand lazily. "You do have some small talent in that area. Why do you think I even bothered to teach you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Because you wanted to show off how smart you were?"

"Don't be petty. Think! Do I usually put up with random stupidity? Obviously, I appreciated your ability."

"I always wanted you to be proud of me," Sherlock told him, his voice embarrassingly small.

"Am I not?" Mycroft's voice softened considerably. "Don't I always trust you with cases? Don't I do every single thing you ask of me, including arresting my trusted colleague and friend? Doesn't that mean I believe in you?"

Sherlock was trying to process the information, which shouldn't have been difficult, as it came from his very own mind. It seemed that it was sentiment that got in the way.

"But you never tell me that," he said in a hurt voice.

"I'm sorry. You know I have a hard time expressing... sentiment. I even tell myself that it is a chemical defect to even possess it. But it's a defect I can't overcome." He paused. "Because it isn't possible. I will always care about you and believe in you, Sherlock."

"I don't need your caring. I still hate you and I want you to stay far away from me," Sherlock said belligerently.

Mycroft smiled at him mockingly. "Is that why you seek me out, even when I'm not physically present?"

"I don't even know why you're here. I can never get away from you, even in the privacy of my own mind. Do you always need to interfere?"

"Of course. Because I am concerned."

"I hate when you do that. I hate when I need you to come rescue me."

"Why, Sherlock?"

"Because I hate being in your debt."

The older man was smiling ruefully and shaking his head. "No, Sherlock. Tell me the real reason."

"Because..." Sherlock suddenly turned around and pointed to a locked room. "The answer is in there, Mycroft. Give me the key."

"No, little brother," Mycroft shook his head sadly. "You are the one with the key. Find it within your own heart."

Suddenly, they were both inside. They stood silently in the corner of the room, watching the scene in front of them.

A curly haired boy of about seven was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, and his head resting on them. He was shaking and letting out gut-wrenching sobs.

A young teenaged boy, heavily built and with a sharp pointed nose, was gently patting the younger ones shoulders. "Please, stop this. I will help you find him. Please stop crying," he pleaded.

The younger boys head suddenly shot up, and he pointed his index finger at the older one. "You're a liar! You're not even trying!" he screamed. "Why couldn't you save him?! Why? I'm the little one, the stupid one, I can't do anything myself. You're my big brother! You should have made sure this never happened!"

"Sherlock, please, I'm doing the best I can."

"YOU DON'T EVEN CARE!" The little boy was shrieking now, wild eyed and red in the face. "You only come to rescue me after I've already fallen! Why couldn't you save me before I had to turn to drugs? Why didn't you save me so I wouldn't turn into a high functioning sociopath? Why did I have to suffer being all alone for two years? Why couldn't you save me before I got on the plane? Do you really care, Mycroft? "

The two adult versions of the brothers looked at each other. "So that's it?" Mycroft asked softly.

Sherlock looked troubled. "My young mind, it seems, believed you capable of anything. I've always looked up to and trusted you, Big Brother. And it seems that, although I knew logically that you do all you could, my heart feels let down."

Very softly, he added, "And then it wonders if you really do care."

"Do you still, brother mine?" Sherlock's voice cracked. "Why did you leave me?"

"Did I leave you? Or did you leave me?"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I'm happy to see you enjoy reading this almost as much as I enjoy writing this! Thank you, RedHatMeg, for your suggestion to have Mycroft take a break!

* * *

He knew he was walking into a trap the moment he stepped inside the room. Nevertheless, there was no way back. Charles Edwin was present, along with Lady Smallwood and, of course Anthea. "Is the country still at peace?" he inquired, eyebrows raised.

"No, no, everything's alright," Sir Edwin reassured him. "We were merely discussing the upcoming Global Security Conference. We need to have appropriate representatives, considering the impact that this conference can have on our internal security issues and international matters."

"You've got to be kidding me!" Mycroft exclaimed, cottoning on to the plan. "Those conferences are nothing but a smokescreen. Matters of true importance are resolved in a different manner, as you well know."

"Nevertheless," Lady Smallwood countered, "It's important to show our faces. We have put together a list of candidates," she shoved a paper into his face, "and we merely need your approval."

The name at the top of the list read "Mycroft Holmes."

Charles Edwin smiled wryly, and waved a hand defensively. "Don't blame me, this was the ladies' idea. I will be taking over most of your local responsibilities, so that you can concentrate on your duties as a representative."

The British Government continued perusing the list, noting that Lady Smallwood and Anthea were included. The head of their surveillance team, a pleasant young man by the name of Brian, and Alicia's new PA, a middle-aged woman named Cheryl, would be joining them. "We have tried to minimize the amount of random noise and wanton stupidity you will have to put up with, Sir," Anthea spoke up, nodding at the list.

Internally, Mycroft had to agree with her. His chosen companions were preferable to most of the usual goldfish he had to deal with. "I don't really have a choice, do I?" he sighed.

"Best do as the ladies say," Charles whispered conspirationally. "They can be quite convincing."

He stood up to leave, adding, "We'll be in touch regarding my temporary responsibilities. Oh, and do take care of yourself, Mycroft, you can use a break just like the rest of us."

The younger man was left a bit confused, but some part of him appreciated the sentiment. Sir Edwin, while not quite a friend (did Mycroft even have any?) was a valuable ally, who had provided assistance in the fiasco with Magnussen, altering records so Sherlock could go free. Mycroft owed him for that. And he had agreed to play along with the Sherrinford plan, lying to the governor about the Holmes's whereabouts.

After Mycroft was rescued from Sherrinford, Charles had not only been helpful in dealing with the fallout, but he has become somewhat solicitous of Mycroft, inquiring whether he was alright, and urging him to consider taking a break. Perhaps, Mycroft mused, he wasn't as alone as he thought. It was more a matter of knowing how to notice, but some people _did_ care.

He became somewhat uneasy as he glanced at the determined expressions of the two women in the room. They had something up their sleeves, and he wasn't sure he was going to like it.

"We are in the midst of drawing up a timetable," Anthea remarked casually. "We will stay a duration of two weeks, and there are only a limited amount of meetings that require our attendance."

To Mycroft's horror, the ladies removed several travel magazines from the drawer. "What to you think of a weekend in Athens, Sir? Or would you prefer Delphi? There are so many historical sites, it's hard to chose. And of course we need some good old-fashioned leisure time at the beaches, there's Myrtos Beach, and we can do Santorini-"

"This is starting to sound suspiciously like _holiday planning,_ instead of a work conference."

"And what's wrong with that? Don't we all deserve a little break from the daily grind?" Lady Smallwood looked him in the eye. "Especially you, Mycroft. I have _never_ seen you take some time for yourself, or do anything for yourself, for that matter. Our country will not fall, your family will be fine by themselves, and we will honestly enjoy your company. No, no, don't try to squirm your way out of this. I don't want to resort to other techniques to convince you."

Mycroft was well aware, that between the three co-conspirators, they would find ways to prevent him fromy access to his work, regardless of his agreement. So the so-called most dangerous man you will ever meet capitulated to the most dangerous women he had ever met.

* * *

Mycroft was actually beginning to relax as he finished packing. He preferred to handle his own clothes as opposed to the housekeeper, he was a bit obsessive about his apparel, or OCD as his brother labeled him. Truthfully, they both had some obsessive behaviors, and flung the diagnosis at each other as a taunt pretty often.

Thinking about his brother brought a swell of hurt into his consciousness. No matter what had happened between them, he missed the contact they used to have, no matter how fraught with tension.

His phone chimed, and he grew apprehensive as he recognized the specific ringtone. He opened it with trembling fingers.

"Need to see you -SH"

"What do you need? -MH"

He typed the reply in dismay, wondering what his brother was up to. And if he could stand to brush him off again.

"You- SH"

As Mycroft pondered the reply, he received another text.

"Please- SH"

The single word tore at his heart. His brother never, ever, used that word when asking something from him. This was the equivalent of Sherlock pleading on hands and knees. Or he might just be manipulating his older brother, but Mycroft didn't care. If his brother needed him, he would be there. He had promised, after all.

"9:00 tonight, my house -MH"

* * *

Mycroft was sitting on the sofa in the basement when his little brother found him. He had no doubt that Sherlock had gone through the rest of the house before he came down, always a bit too curious for his own good.

His expression somber, Mycroft silently motioned for Sherlock to sit down on the sofa beside him. He was aware that they needed to talk, but some things were easier when shown. He selected a VCR and made to put it in.

"You've lost weight," Sherlock blurted suddenly.

"That's a first- to hear you say that, I mean," the older brother replied sardonically.

The younger man scrutinized his brother intensely, a troubled look on his face. Mycroft even detected a hint of concern in his voice.

"You haven't been exercising, and it's not a new diet. You look tired and pale, but you're not stressed or worried. You eat more when you're stressed or worried, or upset."

The detective paused, the gears in his mind spinning madly.

"You eat less when you're... sad, or mourning," he said in a very quiet tone.

"Is there something you feel you've lost, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, a bit bewildered, definite concern in his voice. His little brother had definitely changed Mycroft mused, and he wished it hadn't been so difficult to watch.

"Perhaps something I only thought I had," Mycroft responded in the same tone. "Or something I lost a very long time ago," he added, suddenly feeling his throat close off.

Without a word, he turned on the video player. The two brothers glued their eyes to the screen, as it began to play a very familiar scene of a family on the beach.

The family was waving goodbye, and the scene cut away, only to suddenly spring back to life. A pigtailed little girl was running towards the small group, waving something in her hand. "Sherlock, Sherlock, look what I found!" she screamed happily.

Sherlock turned astounded eyes to his brother. "Uncut version," Mycroft explained quietly. "Locked up where even you couldn't find it." He smiles grimly.

The girl showed off a mollusk shell. "Oh, Eurus, where did you wander off again to? You need to stay nearby, you know," Mummy scolded.

"I was," the girl answered innocently, blinking her eyes.

"She would do that a lot, wander off and nobody could find her. We gave up trying to look, and just waited for her to come back," the older brother murmured, and the younger one nodded in understanding.

They watched as the two youngest whispered to each other conspirationally, and then suddenly began throwing handfuls of sand at the oldest boy. "We're gonna take you down, you evil Captain Croft!" the younger one hollered.

"No rest for the wicked, Crafty Croft!" the three-year-old girl yelled, throwing her handful with vigour.

The older boy covered his face with his hands, and pretended to collapse on the sandy floor. The two tykes began jumping all over him. "We've got the Crafty Croft!" they chanted, giggles. The fallen boy lay on his back, his hands still covering his face, when he suddenly reached out and grabbed the two little terrors. He sat up, still holdIing on, and screamed, "Got you!"

The three of them dissolved into shrieks of laughter, the oldest one never letting go of the two treasures understand his arms. The screen turned off.

Mycroft was the first one to speak, "This is what we used to be."

"What are we now?" Sherlock asked after a pause, somewhat forlornly.

"I wish I knew," Mycroft sighed. "I wish I knew."


	9. Chapter 9

"I could do with a cigarette, I think," Sherlock said after they spent a moment in quiet contemplation.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Some things in life are never sure. I just feel like it," he shrugged.

With exaggerated impatience, Mycroft handed over the goods. "It's full tar," he he snapped.

"You only smoke low tar," Sherlock remarked, staring at his brother.

The latter didn't answer.

"Won't you take one too?" Sherlock asked.

The older man regarded his brother, hearing the unsaid please. He inclined his head, and they both made their way to the back garden to indulge.

"Did you ever think what could have been, if things had stayed the same?" Sherlock asked contemplatively.

"Impossible to tell. Nothing ever stays the same, Sherlock. Things could have gone differently, in various ways, and every variable could have changed the picture completely." Mycroft puffed thoughtfully. "I can't tell whether the future is predetermined, but I do know that the past cannot be altered."

"Let's say you would contemplate the possibilities for the sake of a mental exercise. Excuse my language please, I know you consider _exercise_ a dirty word," the younger brother couldn't resist a jab. " Could you imagine us in the present, leading ordinary lives?"

"Ordinary..." Mycroft let out a sound that was half-scornful, half-astounded. "Meeting with mates at the pub for pints and football games on the telly?"

"Working nine-to-five and going home for dinner with the family," Sherlock smirked, playing along.

"Bringing the kids every weekend to Grandma and Grandpa," Mycroft was starting to get into the swing of it.

"Inviting each other for barbecue dinners with the wives and kids," the younger one added.

"Birthday parties and graduations, Christmas dinners with enough mess and noise to send one into catatonic shock," Mycroft grimaced.

"That doesn't really sound like our cup of tea, does it?" Sherlock mused.

The older brother noted his use of the inclusive adjective. "We were always a bit different than the ordinary, Sherlock, and our lives were never going to run in that direction. Do you remember, when it was just the both of us, you and me against the world?" Mycroft reminisced in an unusual sentimental moment.

"There's nothing wrong with being ordinary," Sherlock said sharply, and Mycroft winced. He had momentarily forgotteno how he had used that description to insult Sherlock's best friend.

"Nor is there anything wrong with being different," he said firmly. "And by the way, Dr. Watson always was an extraordinary man."

"You don't have to pretend to like him," Sherlock shot back.

"No matter my personal relationship with him, it is the truth. And if I may be honest with you, I'm glad you have him."

Sherlock stared at his brother. "You're glad you found and adept handler to hand me over to," he said accusingly.

"Well, if you want to put it that way. You don't want me to interfere with your life anymore, so I don't. What exactly more do you want?"

"Nothing. I actually came here to tell you that... never mind. I don't think you'd care."

"Why would you think so?" Mycroft gritted his teeth, feeling his patience stretched thin.

"You're going on holiday. To Greece. I saw the stuff you packed. Beachwear and suntan lotion, casual wear and trainers. This isn't just a conference. Who are you taking along? Anthea? Lady Smallwood? Isn't it nice that you can take a holiday with your _family_?"

"Oh, so that's it," the older one's patience finally did snap. "You can't stand the fact that there are people who can stand to be in my company without ulterior motives, such as stealing from me or drugging me senseless. You have made a good life for yourself with your various associates, why does it bother you if I have a life, too?"

The younger one looked as if he had been physically slapped. "I didn't quite mean it that way," he said, a hint of apology in his voice. "I'm just saying, it seems that you're finding less time these days for some of us."

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and turned him around to face him. "I made a promise, Sherlock, and I never intend to renege on that. I will always be there for you. You just have to let me know when you need me, because I don't always know, despite what you may believe about me. No matter what happens, we remain what we always were. You and I, against anything we might face, together."

Sherlock looked away. In a matter-of-fact voice, he said, "I told them. Everything."

"You did?" Mycroft asked in disbelief.

"It was time. They were shaken up, but it got them thinking. Will you give them a chance if they try?"

"You know how much I've tried to protect them. In the end, they're the only parents I have, and they most likely did the best they could. Still, I don't think that things will ever be the same."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," Sherlock smiled. "You know, I sent Lestrade over that night, to make sure you will alright."

Mycroft suddenly recalled the DI's visit, his inquiries and Anthea's reassurance that she had things in hand. As he was leaving, Lestrade remarked to Mycroft that Sherlock was worried about him. At the time, Mycroft hadn't taken it to mean anything more than polite reassurance.

"That was you," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "Your concern is appreciated," he added with a hint of a smile, amusement in his voice. He was nevertheless moved by the sentiment.

Sherlock stuck out his right hand, and Mycroft bemusedly shook it. "Have a great trip, brother mine, and send me some photos. I won't believe you've actually worn swim shorts until I see it," he said mischievously.

"See you soon, brother mine," Mycroft replied, and for a moment, they just grinned at each other in a sort of rueful accepting way that said more than words ever could.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** I've done this in a different post, but I feel the need to do it again. I'm reposting that note:

This note is a bit more personal than I usually write, but I hope you won't mind. I am mourning the passing of one of the strongest, bravest women I ever knew, who taught me the true meaning of love. My grandmother devoted her life to caring for those in need, never expecting anything in return. In her memory, I ask you to perform an extra kindness, even if it's only sharing an extra smile. And take a moment to appreciate your family, they should never be taken for granted. Thank you.

* * *

Only once did they make the mistake of taking a guided tour. After Mycroft had, in his exquisitely polite manner, reduced the poor tour guide to tears, by questioning his assertions about every detail of the historical site, correcting his knowledge of the political history and scientific findings, and in general making the man look like an incompetent fool.

"I had thought you would have showed more class," Lady Smallwood stiffly reprimanded him.

"I do apologize, Alicia," Mycroft said, with real contrition. It surprised him how comfortable he was in using her first name. Their group had dispensed with most of the usual formalities during their touring phase, and Mycroft felt like he was shedding his old, tightly stretched skin and growing into a more comfortable new one.

"I saw no reason to suffer the fool. If one takes on a job, one has to at least make an effort to do it right. He definitely hadn't done his homework."

"Oh, Mycroft," she smiled slightly. "You do realize that people come just to have a good time, and his job is to give them that. If he presents myths and legends as facts, or gets some names and dates wrong, most people don't care, as long as he catches their interest."

The British Government looked as if he had swallowed a lemon whole.

"Mr. Holmes," Brian interrupted them, using the title the three younger members of their party had unofficially decided on. While they dispensed with the 'Sir' while not on duty, using the Iceman's first name was still too terrifying a prospect. "Perhaps what we nend is someone truly proficient to guide us on our future tours. There are rumours that we have a walking Wikipedia in our midst. Why not make use of him?"

"Think of it as a challenge," Anthea added mischievously. "If any one of us can find a fact you've gotten wrong, we get to request your presence at the venue of our choice.

Mycroft nearly groaned out loud. His co-workers had cajoled him into many new experiences, some of which he didn't wish to repeat (the overcrowded pub was the worst yet). Though others weren't completely awful, he had to admit to himself. The beach had proved quite relaxing, and had appealed to his sense of aesthetics. Nevertheless, he wasn't one to back down from a direct challenge.

"Accepted," he nodded, and the others cheered.

He spent the night brushing up on his knowledge of historical Athens and Sparta.

Nobody managed to catch him in error, of course, but they still managed to cajole him in a game of pool in the hotel. Cheryl turned out to be the champion of the game, but Mycroft still showed his hand by being the second best.

"I didn't know you had it in you," Brian ribbed him good-naturedly. "You look more at home sitting behind a desk and typing away."

Mycroft gave him a superior smile. "Ah, the young ones. I'll have you know that in my days, I have been to places you wouldn't dream of, and performed feats you do not have the imagination to grasp."

"Do tell," Anthea urged, amused.

"Sorry, that's highly classified."

"And we all have the appropriate clearance, I think," Alicia interrupted smoothly. "You don't have to give us all the details, but do share a bit. When, for example, did you have to practice your pool shooting skills?"

Later that night, the man code-named Antarctica found himself sharing drinks with the other members of his team, and reminiscing about the good old days. "I was a pretty good shot, but my specialty was infiltration through disguise," he informed them. "Of course, that was before I was put in charge of actually planning the ops, which I much prefer. Less legwork," he grimaced.

He spun a thrilling tale of infiltrating a subversive group by donning several disguises, one after the other, of businessmen and butters, of homeless men and prison guards. He told of how he had the leader of the group convinced that he was his right hand man, and how he eventually brought him down with a single kick while the other agents stormed there lair. "And the best part," he continued, "is that all details about that operation are sealed, so you will never know how much of this really happened."

After a pause, his audience burst into incredulous laugher, while Mycroft smiled in amusement. He was swimming with the goldfish, and he was actually enjoying it.

Before bedding down for the night, he checked his messages once more. There was one he hadn't expected.

"Don't get to comfortable over there, brother mine. England needs you- SH"

He shook his head wryly, and sighed minutely. "I don't know if you still need me," he thought inaudibly, "but I definitely want you to, you impossible brat."

* * *

Martha Hudson hummed cheerfully as she swept into the upper flat.

Things were going pretty well. The house was renovated, her treasured tenant had moved back in, and John was visiting constantly with her precocious goddaughter, whom she loved as much as she did her two boys.

She was befuddled to find Sherlock sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his legs pulled up. His elbows were on his knees, fingers steepled in his typical thinking pose. He had a perfectly comfortable chair to do his Mind Palace flyaway thingy, didn't he?

"Sherlock," she called to him. "Are you alright?"

His eyes flew open. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Did you do something to your chair again? Because the last time that happened, you know what that did to my poor floors, and this time it's definitely coming out of the rent!"

"No, no. I'm just... doing an experiment."

The landlady looked him over, concerned. He had lines under his eyes, and was looking even paler than usual.

"You aren't taking care of yourself again, Sherlock!" she scolded him fondly. "Do I need to call John? Or perhaps I'll give your mother a call this time."

She noticed the slight shudder that ran through him. "I wouldn't advise that, Mrs. Hudson. You know, John isn't really back to himself, despite appearances. The traumas he experienced, so close together, it did something to him. I deduced that he's sleeping poorly, due to nightmares and flashbacks, and all the sodding symptoms of PTSD," he growled uncharacteristically.

"It doesn't help much that, for some unfathomable reason, he has developed a phobia of therapists and won't even go for help now!" the detective had raised his voice in agitation.

"That poor boy! We need to be there for him, you know."

"I'm trying, Mrs. Hudson. And my parents, don't bother with them now. Besides the issue of my sister, they have other issues to deal with on top of that, and they're relying on me to help."

"How _is_ your sister doing?" the landlady inquired.

"We're still playing our violins together, and she even started looking at my parents now, even if she doesn't acknowledge them. And she's still in that darned place and will always be," he sighed at the last words, his shoulders slumping.

He stared at the ceiling blankly for a moment, and then asked, in a hesitant tone, "Mrs. Hudson, is it possible to give away pieces of your heart, until there's nothing left?"

Mrs. Hudson stopped in her tracks, then looked at the young man sympathetically. "Oh, Sherlock," she sighed. "You know, when you give a piece of your heart to someone, they return it with a piece of theirs. You won't lose by giving, only gain" she stated with conviction.

"What if nobody returns it?" he asked plaintively.

"You are not alone, Sherlock Holmes. You have many, many people who care about you," she stated with quiet authority.

She saw a small smile, bittersweet and forlorn, form on his face. "Yes. Yes, I do," he replied, fingering his tie.

Wait, his _what_?

"Sherlock, why are you wearing that tie?"

"It's for the experiment."

"I didn't think you even owned one."

"It's Mycroft's," he said quietly, and she was startled by the way his face suddenly twisted in anguish. She would be having words with that brother of his. Whatever he had done, it had to be severe to make Sherlock look as broken as that.


	11. Chapter 11

As soon as the black car pulled up, Mrs. Hudson prepared to go to war.

To her surprise, the pretty young girlfriend climbed out after Mycroft Holmes and they came through the front door. Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. That young woman had been very disrespectful the last time they spoke. Ignoring her presence, the landlady rounded on the man with the umbrella.

"I don't care what issues you're having with your brother, Mycroft Holmes, but you have no right to treat him this way! Do you know how much he's dealing with now? Do you know how miserable he looks? And the other day he mentioned your name, and he nearly broke down in tears! What have you done to him?"

The girl was glaring at her fiercely. Mycroft opened his mouth, but nothing came out of it. She suddenly noticed his tan, and her fury grew. "Don't tell me you were on holiday now! Poor Sherlock is overwhelmed by all this family business, and you just upped and left him to deal with everything?!" she hissed incredulously.

The younger man finally found his tongue. "I'm afraid I'm a bit baffled by your complaints," he said smoothly, with barely a hint of anger in his voice. "You were quite adamant about my interference last time. Now you are insisting that I interfere more. Either way, I understand my presence isn't welcome. I shan't be here again to bother you, Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft shot a look at his assistant, and then turned to head out. As he was opening the door, thunderous footsteps were heard from the direction of the stails, and a panting Sherlock appeared into view.

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed, still out of breath. "Where are you going? You said you'll be up in a moment."

"It's very kind of you to have set up a welcoming committee," his brother replied in measured tones. "You obviously know how much I enjoyed being relieved so graciously. Now, I do have some urgent matters to attend to. Keep well" he gestured with his umbrella and headed to the door once more.

"No, Mycroft, this wasn't me," Sherlock sounded frantic. "I promise you! Mrs. Hudson, what did you say to him?" he asked, bewildered. "Never-ending, I should have known this would happen. Come on, Mycroft, you can't just leave like that!" he pleaded.

Mrs. Hudson stared at her tenant in confusion. Sherlock barely tolerated his brother's presence in the best of times, and here he was pleading for him to stay in the tone of a small child afraid of being left alone.

Much more astonishing were the words that came out of his mouth next. "I'm sorry, Mycroft." The concept of apologies had long been deleted from the younger man's hard drive, if it had ever made it in at all. "I didn't realize she would intercept you. Please ignore her for now, and come up."

"Sherlock!" the landlady exclaimed, offended, as the older man nodded reluctantly and made his way up the stairs with a heavy tread. The younger man raced ahead, paying her no heed.

The landlady's ire grew as she watched the girlfriend- or was it assistant? - open the door to her apartment and head inside as if she owned the place, all while keeping her eyes glued to her mobile.

"I don't recall inviting you in," she said as she followed.

The younger woman merely smiles distractedly, as she began typing on her phone. After a minute, she spoke up, in a bland, disinterested tone. "You have no idea what you have done, do you?"

"Pardon?" the landlady replied, using her most dangerous tone.

The girl still wasn't running for the hills. "He used to look up to you, you know," she continued conversationally. "He admired the way you dealt with his brother, how you managed the nearly impossible job of getting his affection. He actually enjoyed coming here, once upon a time."

She looked up suddenly, her eyes grave. "Between you and me, the man who carries the world on his shoulders was in desparate need of some mothering. In some small measure, it's what he got over here."

"Of course," she smiled cynically, "he was only a far second to your number ones, but he would take what he could get. He is, after all, pretty much used to it. He was always content in lething his brother bask in the limelight, and was satisfied with whatever crumbs you threw his way.

"He never expected any sort of gratitude or even acknowledgement, you know, from his brother or anyone else, no matter how many times he was called to clean up his messes. You know exactly who's paying a large part of the rent, and for all the damage your tenant's haphazard living conditions cause.

"Likewise, you've never hesitated to call for his help, when Sherlock got himself into trouble. And Mycroft never hesitated to accede to your requests. He thought that there was mutual respect between you.

"There wasn't, was there? For some reason, you were always suspicious of his motives. I know that you accused him several times of sending his brother into danger, never listening to his side. Don't you think it preposterous for him to casually risk someone he puts so much effort into protecting?"

The older woman was shocked speechless, and struggled to find herstwhile voice. "I do what I need to do to protect my family," she bit our sharply.

"So does he. And so do I," the girl smiled pleasantly. "I don't care what exactly he did to get him upset, but you knew that it was only out of concern for his brother. He had thought you would understand at least that.

"You are just another person who uses him when convenient and then refuse to cut him slack when he got something wrong. He claims that caring is not an advantage, and I no longer wonder why. He gave you his trust and you betrayed it." The younger woman's eyes were flashing dangerously.

"I don't- I was only going by what Sherlock told me," Mrs. Hudson defended herself, but her words were unsure.

"Sherlock, well, of course. Again, between you and me, if you look up the definition of ungrateful brat in the dictionary, you know who's picture you'll find. You're supposed to be the mature adult, and you don't have to go along with his little games of mocking and humiliating his brother, especially when he didn't do a thing to deserve it.

"Oh, and I'll have you know that this little holiday was the first selfish thing he did in his _life,_ and only under coercion. We worked so hard to get him to relax and think about himself for once without feeling guilty. Now we'll have to start over.

The girl gave her a final smile, and added, as a parting shot, "By the way, some reptiles have feelings too."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Thank you for the wonderful reviews. I value my esteemed readers' opinions highly. In common parlance, you make my day!

* * *

"I see you haven't learnt your lesson about taking my posessions," Mycroft said dryly, staring at Sherlock's tie.

"I needed it for an experiment," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"If you have concluded your 'experiment', might I be able to get my tie back?" Big Brother drawled sarcastically.

"Definitely. And my conclusion is thus; you are an idiot."

"I've assumed you have reached that conclusion a long time ago. What was it again, you're beginning to think that I'm not very clever, something like that?" There was a bite to his voice that his little brother wasn't accustomed to.

"No, not that kind of idiot. A different one. I was wearing this thing," the detective gestured, "trying to imagine myself in your place. And I reached another conclusion: I praise the Lord that I am not."

Mycroft snorted, but didn't say anything. His posture was tense, expectant, waiting for further explanation.

"I simply don't understand. How did you do it? How did you give, without receiving anything in return? How did the engine run without oil?"

Mycroft stared at him in silent contemplation. At last, he spoke. "A man has to do his duty."

"And you went far beyond that. You never got rid of your chemical defects, did you? All your preaching, and you never could practice it." Sherlock paused. "You are much worse than I thought. I saw what else you had hidden in your safe."

"You took those too. Doesn't your conscience ever bother you?" the older one asked cynically.

In response, Sherlock produced the goods: a small, worn pirate hat, and a little toy airplane. "The hat is mine. You might ask our sister if she wants the plane back. And I needed the tie, to understand what happens, when you care too much."

Mycroft swallowed, and then looked away, fingers tapping on the arm of his chair. His younger brother, who had been pacing about, abruptly sat down on the chair reserved for clients. "I've always wondered what that felt like," he mused with a small smile. "To business now, I have the letters."

He tossed two envelopes on the table. With a sigh, his older brother reached for it. He placed it carefully in the pocket of his jacket. He faced his brother again. "I imagine you're familiar with the contents."

"I didn't read it, if that's what you mean. I know that they wrote it on John's advice, and he may have coached them a bit. They were pretty...lost, I think. It was hard for them, knowing what to say, what you needed to hear."

"That, right there, is the heart of the matter," Mycroft said slowly. "I imagine there are some heartfelt apologies and declarations of affection contained therein. Yet it wasn't my parents who tried to understand what I needed. If they had just listened, just once..." he trailed off, his tboughts heading to a void that words couldn't fill.

"So that's what you wanted, all along. To be listened to," Sherlock frowned thoughtfully.

"Truthfully, you shouldn't hold out much hope for us being one happy family again, or that sort of rubbish. I am willing to give them a fair chance, if they give me one, that's all. All I ask for is to tell _my_ story, as I experienced it. Afterwards, you will have judgements, you may call me out on my mistakes. It doesn't matter. I have always understood that I am to be held at a different standard than the rest of the family, and will be judged accordingly."

"But why?" Sherlock asked, furrow ingredients his brows. "Are you saying you're different than us, that you're special?" he asked, somewhat offended.

"Not different, I only made a different decision. When things fell apart, everyone did the same, except for me. I couldn't afford to. Someone had to be the strong one, to deal with what no one else could deal with."

"No matter what the consequences," Sherlock muttered.

"No matter," Mycroft repeated tightly.

"Even if it ended with a hole in this," Sherlock pointed at his tie, shaking his head slowly.

"Even that." The brothers exchanged a long glance.

"And even if you ended up getting on the wrong side of every sweet old lady you deal with," the younger man smirked, as he saw Mrs. Hudson carrying in a tray of teacups.

Mycroft glanced at her warily. "That too. While watching them eating out of your hands."

"I'm just that charming," Sherlock preened.

"Would you two like some tea?" the landlady asked cheerfully.

"I'm afraid I will decline the offer," the British Government said, very politely. "Although your tea is most excellent, I'm afraid that's not all that this cup contains."

While his usually loquacious landlady stood with her jaw hanging open, Sherlock roared with laughter. "He got you there, Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaimed, far too gleefully for her liking.

"I would never ruin a perfectly good brew with poison!" she exclaimed indignantly, when she finally found her tongue. "I would put it in the water, perhaps."

Placing the tray on the table, she leaned towards Mycroft and said in a low, conspirationally tone, " You know, at my age, my eyesight isn't what it used to be. I sometimes don't even see what's right in front of my eyes. Can you forgive an old lady for that?"

After a moment's contemplation, Mycroft nodded stiffly. "I understand. Do try to remember we're all on the same side over here." He jerked his head in Sherlock's direction to underscore his point.

"Mrs. Hudson, you wouldn't really poison my brother, would you?" Sherlock asked innocently. "After all, as a wise woman once said, family is all we have in the end."

* * *

Mycroft got to say his piece, in the end. He told his narrative in dry tones, detailing facts and feelings in the same manner. Despite that, or perhaps because, his story had his parents breaking down at several points. At his request, they didn't interrupt, not even to empathize, or apologize. That wasn't what Mycroft wanted, and for once, he was the Man of the Hour.

The Holmes parents and Sherlock were his audience. John had politely excused himself, saying that this wasn't his place. Few were the facts that they didn't know, but many were the details they weren't aware of.

A teenager had sacrificed his emotional wellbeing to make sure his family was safe. He had suffered silently, his sleep filled with nightmares, his days filled with concern. Yet he continued playing his role, a dutiful son, lending a shoulder for his parents to cry on. A mentor, and protector, to his younger brother, teaching him to care a little less, so there would never be another Redbeard to break his heart.

And a jailer to his sister, whom he had once adored, and still, very deep in his heart, cared for. Alone, he bore the agony of knowing the truth, and being the one to conceal it. His parents couldn't know, for the lie he told them was much kinder. His little brother needed them, and the true state of his sister would very likely destroy them.

Even worse was what his little sister would do, if he ever let a crack open in her fortress. Her own parents would be like putty in her hands, manipulated like puppets into doing her bidding. Only a young teenager and his eccentric uncle could see through her machinations, and would let no one else come close.

"I'm sorry that you grieved. I never wanted to cause you pain," he stated. His tone wasn't regretful, or pained, merely matter of fact. "If I had to do it all over again, I might have found another way. This is not a game of 'what ifs', only a story of the past."

He wasn't finished. "There is another story, that isn't mine to tell. I trust Sherlock has told you his side. I will only say this: I am, and have always been, concerned about him. Whatever our differences, I have his best interests at heart. I have always hoped you would understand that, and he would know it, too."

He paused, a wave of exhaustion passing over him. "That is all I have to say."

"That was plenty," his father remarked mildly. He got up and patted Mycroft on the shoulder. "Thank you, son. It was always hard for us to know you, when you didn't talk. Thank you for letting us in."

Mrs. Holmes was more expressive, physically and emotionally. She hugged Mycroft tearfully, and asked for forgiveness over and over again. Mycroft refrained from gritting his teeth at the overflow of sentimentality he was drowning in.

"Mummy, listen to me please," he said firmly, grateful for Lady Smallwood's coaching for dealing with this situation. "You are my parents, and I will always be your son. But right now, I need time. Perhaps you need some time too. There are some things that cannot be erased, or written over, only dealt with. And we all need time to deal with this."


	13. Epilogue

**A/N:** Coming around has come to an end. I would love to hear from you; which part/s did you enjoy the most? I can now concentrate on finishing the original story that inspired this one, but I really enjoyed writing this. Once again, thank you for your support!

 **Update:** The original story is named "What Goes Around", if you want to follow it. And please, leave a review over here if you enjoyed this story. It will definitely encourage me to write more. I'm not begging, of course just... requesting? ;)

* * *

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft greeted the man affably.

"Mycroft," he responded pleasantly. There was a moment of awkward silence.

"So, have you got a case for us?" John tried to break the ice. He had come to Baker Street to help wrap up a case (it was only a six, but Sherlock was desperately bored). "Sherlock is alternating between climbing the walls and shooting at them."

"Not at the moment, I'm afraid. I've actually come around for you, Dr. Watson."

"As I keep on reminding you, I do have a phone," John said mildly.

Mycroft smiled, not unpleasantly. "I would prefer to do this in person. Dr. Watson, I wish to thank you for assisting our family through the difficult times we had. You have my gratitude."

John let his surprise show on his face. "Mycroft," he said slowly. "That's what family is for. We help each other out. And I think it's about time you dropped the formalities, and called me by my name. It's John, by the way," he added, smirking.

"I'm sure my parents are very glad that you consider them family. Truthfully, they would have preferred you as a son, instead of what they got the first time they tried," the Iceman said sardonically.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled, looking up from the human liver he had been examining. "Would you leave John alone already!"

"Apologies... John. That was a rather poor attempt at humour, I suppose. Yet I know that my parents hold you in high esteem. If you aren't careful, they will manage to legally adopt you."

"You should have seen them, Mycroft, when you wouldn't talk to them. They were broken up over their mistakes. That's not to say I don't get your side, you just have to realize how much you mean to them. Honestly, I think they didn't realize it themselves, until you made them."

"And you assisted them with that. Thank you for that. I'll be leaving now..."

"We were just about to start a game," Sherlock called out to him. "John insists on playing anything but Cluedo. What would you suggest?"

Mycroft ended up staying a while, and playing too. They tried various games, and ended up making up different variations for each games that the Holmes brothers insisted were much more sensible.

Before Mycroft left, he mentioned that they should perhaps do it again sometime, and he would offer his mansion for the occasion. "John, I can give you a guided tour, if you want. You just had to ask, you know," he said, right before leaving.

"Sherlock," the doctor turned to his friend. "Do you remember what you first told me about your brother? Something about him being the most dangerous man I'll ever meet?"

"Of course I remember," Sherlock said plainly.

"I really hope you were exaggerating. By far."

* * *

Once again, the Holmes family found themselves in Sherrinford. This time, no one was missing.

The path to their reunion hadn't been smooth. The Holmes's Senior had tried to be more involved in their children's lives. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had found it difficult to adjust to, having been used to little contact with them over the years. All patries did their best, trying to reach out, while not pushing too hard.

An inevitable blowup happened when the family had gathered one Sunday afternoon, to discuss the one member who was unable to join them. Mrs. Holmes had cheerfully suggested that they make another visit, and Mycroft had grimaced in response.

The matriarch had looked hurt. "We're not forcing you, Mikey. I just thought you would like to see how your sister is doing. Is it too much to hope for, that for a couple of hours, I can see my family be together again?"

"How wonderful," Mycroft sassed. "Let's all take a little trip, play some music, make a picnic while we're at it. What's the point, really. It's not as if she will care who's there, besides for Sherlock."

The other three family members looked at him with varying degrees of confusion and hurt. Mildred Holmes opened her mouth to snap back, when her husband put a calming hand on her shoulder. "Mycroft," he said gently. "Look, we're trying here. I can see you're not happy about this, and you can make your own decision. I just want to know if there's anything more you want to tell us. Communication goes both ways, you know."

Mycroft worried his lips, while Sherlock stared at him, trying to deduce him. The younger one suddenly sat up straight. "Mycroft, what happened, over there, in her cell?" he asked softly.

Seeing the genuinely concerned faces surrounding him, the British Government let his guard down a bit. "Nothing happened," he stated flatly. "She just told me some things, and I was a bit...concerned." He paused. "Things she planned to do to Sherlock, to Dr. Watson. To both of you, when she finished with them," he looked straight at his parents.

He watched their expressions betray their inner anguish, and hated himself for it. For so ,any years, he had focused on protecting them, letting them live in blissful ignorance. Was denial so bad, if it prevented hearts from breaking?"

"The truth, rarely pure and never simple," Sherlock said, as if reading his thoughts.

"I'll let you know," he said at last, and Mrs. Holmes quickly changed the topic to her last meeting with little Rosie.

Sherlock called him that night, for the sole purpose to check up on him. Mycroft was beginning to think that his little brother was not a completely horrid brat anymore. "I do understand them, Sherlock," he said. "Denial is a coping mechanism, one in which each of us has engaged to some extent. In some respects, it is better than focusing on things that can't be changed either way, and then falling into darkness."

"They're trying to process everything, and perhaps some of it is too much. They're limited too, you know."

Mycroft huffed a laugh. "Aren't we all," he asked ironically. "Aren't we all."

His final decision to go was one he made for himself. In the end, he needed to confront his demons, and see that while Eurus was safely confined, he and everyone he cared about was still alive and well. Alicia had told him that he was learning to be selfish, and she was happy for him. He had laughed at that, but had understood how seriously she had meant it.

Sherlock played, and Eurus let her violin speak. Mummy reached out her left hand to him, and he clutched it tightly, love and forgiveness passing through them silently.

He requested several moments with Eurus by himself. He sent her one more gift, and watched as she touched it, then held it. Then he spoke.

"I cannot do what Sherlock does. I have no way to reach you, I never have. I've feared you, I've even hated you, but I never could really stop caring.

"The gift that I'm giving you now is one which I doubt you'll understand the significance of. I don't even know what you're brilliant mind capable of grasping now, whether it's broken beyond repair. Therefore, I'll tell you what this gift represents.

"You have tried to tear our family apart. You weren't satisfied with simple torture, you wanted us to cause pain to each other. This gift is proof that sentiment can destroy, but it can also build. My little brother would rather shoot himself than shoot me. And I would gladly take a bullet to save not only him, but his happiness. His _friend._

"And you, look at you. You were in control, yet you left me alive in the end. You rescued Dr. Watson, and you respond to Sherlock. Could it be, that in some context, you too are suffering from a chemical defect?

"All I know us that my family is safe, and caring about each other has made us stronger. I hope you enjoy the tie."

Sherlock kept a little toy airplane, which reminded him of a little girl all alone in the sky. Eurus, for some reason originating in her unfathomable mind, kept Mycroft's tie under her pillow. Mycroft kept a little pirate hat, gifted to him by his little brother, because no one else would ever appreciate it as much as Mycroft would.


End file.
